


How to Celebrate an Anniversary Without Really Trying

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Aziraphale cooks!, Confused Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), First Time, Food, Idiots in Love, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 08:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19884406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Perhaps he should have expected it. After all, he wasn’t exactly an innocent, no matter how Crowley teased him for blushing and averting his eyes during the racy moments in films Crowley insisted on bringing over to his flat. Aziraphale had been in the Garden, after all, and saw exactly what Adam and Eve got up to as soon as they’d eaten the fruit. The fruit they’d been tempted to eat by Crowley, no less...Still, he hadn’t expected it, and now he didn’t know what to do.





	How to Celebrate an Anniversary Without Really Trying

**Author's Note:**

> So, erm, I haven't ever read the book (ducks), but I of course was smitten by D & M's performances in the miniseries, so here we are. This is Not Mine, etc. No offense is intended to anyone, especially to you book canon devotees, as I'm sure I've got some things wrong. Many thanks to Bella Flan for her beta and comments, one of which regarding my love for semicolons made me snorfle. Enjoy!

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising. After all, over the past six thousand years Aziraphale had developed certain appetites: for fine vintages, French cuisine, late afternoon naps, and for long, hot, lavender-scented bubble baths. These indulgences, he was aware, weren’t strictly in keeping with angelic policy, but nor were they outright violations, so they didn’t trouble him overmuch. It was inevitable that with so much exposure to the human world, one would be influenced. It was only natural. 

That was of course before the anti-Antichrist and the Apocalypse that never was, back when life was much more complicated, or should have been, but really wasn’t. Ever since he had been released from his heavenly obligations and pledged allegiance to humanity and to partnership with Crowley with no need to hide or dissemble, things should have been much simpler but really weren’t. 

Perhaps he should have expected it. After all, he wasn’t exactly an innocent, no matter how Crowley teased him for blushing and averting his eyes during the racy moments in films Crowley insisted on bringing over to his flat. Aziraphale had been in the Garden, after all, and saw exactly what Adam and Eve got up to as soon as they’d eaten the fruit. The fruit they’d been tempted to by Crowley, no less, even though to this day Aziraphale was certain his friend hadn’t known then what would happen. 

Still, he hadn’t expected it, and now he didn’t know what to do. Ignoring it seemed the best course of action, but after a few days of attempting to do so, he realised it was probably fruitless. It was rather insistent, distracting, nay, all-consuming, this new desire, and its evidence was difficult to disguise, especially in the morning. Not even miracles seemed to work. 

Aziraphale rolled over in bed and looked down at the sheet rising between his legs. Most inconvenient. He sighed and directed his attention at the ceiling, willing the hardness to abate. It seemed too . . . much to do anything else about it. For a fleeting instant, he wondered if the same thing had begun to happen to Crowley, but he pushed the titillating thoughts away. He could never, ever ask such a thing, not if they lived another million years. 

Crowley. His best friend, his companion. His thoughts always came back to Crowley these days, and had for some time if he were honest. The two of them had fallen (pun intended) into a comfortable routine since they chose their own side. They both went about their business during the day and met for dinner most evenings, usually at a restaurant Aziraphale selected. Sometimes they stayed in and Aziraphale cooked; with nothing but time on his hands, he’d begun accumulating quite a collection of recipes, plus there were certain foods he’d developed a taste for over the centuries that were impossible to find: capon with black sauce, dormice and parsnip pie to name a few (although he never made the latter when Crowley was around; in fact, he avoided any foods from the 14th century, not wanting Crowley to strop). After dinner, there was always more wine and sometimes coffee over hours of conversation, usually until one or both of them began to yawn. While sleep was not strictly necessary for their constitutions, they’d mutually developed the habit over the centuries, and the siren call of soft cotton sheets and down pillows was impossible to resist, being one of Aziraphale’s favourite things. Other than Crowley, of course. 

He had always loved Crowley. That was a fact he was happy to accept, even if he knew Crowley could never love him back. But it had never been a carnal love; it had been a love of friendship, of soulmates, even, if he wanted to be too on the nose. Now, with the addition of these troublesome new desires, Aziraphale found himself thinking strange things whenever Crowley was around and admiring things he’d merely noticed before, like the hug of Crowley’s trousers on his backside. They were so indecently tight, it was almost as though Crowley chose them to torment and tempt Aziraphale specifically, the bloody demon, though of course Crowley couldn’t possibly know how he felt. 

Still, what would it be like to touch Crowley, or for Crowley to touch him? A little shiver went through him at the thought, and the tented sheet twitched. The fantasies didn’t get more specific than that; Aziraphale wouldn’t let them. No, it was essential nothing interfere with the special arrangement they’d established. It was far too important. 

The morning wore on; he usually didn’t stay in bed later than eight, and today there was an early delivery scheduled for some 18th century French cookbooks he’d ordered from Maggs Brothers. He had been looking forward to trying his hand preparing a feast a la francais in celebration of the year that had passed since Apocalypse averted, though it had heretofore never been his custom to mark such inconsequential passings of time. It was the day he had gained his freedom; the day he and Crowley had both done, and in a way it was the beginning of their life together, free from concerns about treason or punishment from on High. 

Aziraphale realised that human couples would refer to such a day as an ‘anniversary’, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to acknowledge it out loud. In any case, he wasn’t sure Crowley would remember or, if he did, even want to celebrate. It wasn’t like him to be sentimental.

These thoughts had a subduing effect on his difficult situation, and he was able to rise and dress without further incident. The rest of the day passed quietly and as expected. After breakfast, new (old) books in hand, he retired to his study to select recipes for the following week. He’d wanted to recreate in miniature one of the dinners they’d had together at Versaille. Since most of the dishes were hopelessly complicated, he settled on two services over four, with three dishes each. It would be more than enough food for two, and not lavish enough to raise Crowley’s eyebrows. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly, letting out a contented sigh. Life was good. 

He frowned down at his hands as he felt the flesh rise and fall underneath. Perhaps he had been indulging a little overmuch at dinner. He had noticed his waistcoats fitting a bit tighter these days. Had Crowley noticed, and if so, did he mind? 

The thought hit him like the shock of holy fire. He had never in his life as a corporeal being concerned himself with his body shape. He took pride in his sartorial choices, or course, but his vanity ended there. 

It was disconcerting, to say the least. 

That evening, Crowley sauntered in with takeaway and a bottle of Prosecco, his sunglasses perched low on his nose as he flashed Aziraphale a smile. 

“Hello, angel,” he said. “I had a hankering for curry, and I know you don’t like eating in the shop.” 

Aziraphale sniffed the air. “How spicy is it?” 

“Very.” 

Before Aziraphale could protest, Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Mine is at least. Yours, tikka masala, mild, suitable for any respectable English granny.” He set the steaming bag down on the table and ripped the paper, unveiling several containers and selecting one for himself. The other, he nudged Aziraphale’s way, and Aziraphale’s heart squeezed in his chest. 

Once they’d eaten, Crowley popped one of his films into the player he’d insisted on buying and sprawled on the sofa as Aziraphale took his usual position at the opposite end. Crowley’s long, bare, boney feet found their way into Aziraphale’s lap, as they often did when they were sat together like this, and Aziraphale cast his eyes heavenward. He supposed it was a little presumptuous to ask for strength, but he did anyway--silently. 

“You’re not paying attention,” Crowley complained some time later. Aziraphale was paying attention, but not to the movie. He was preoccupied by the way Crowley’s feet squirmed in his lap whenever something happened that Crowley found particularly exciting; how Crowley bit the tip of his thumb in concentration, the tip of his tongue gently playing along the edge of the nail. He couldn’t even be glad for the darkness obscuring his physical response, as Crowley was a demon. If he looked too carefully or wriggled just so, Aziraphale’s secret would be out. He held onto the feet in question to keep them at bay, massaging gently. 

“I am, my dear,” Aziraphale managed. “It’s a wonderful film. I’m enjoying it immensely.”

“Then what’s it about?” Crowley’s yellow eyes were slitted, assessing. 

“Oh, there’s that thin man with big hair. He’s stolen a baby or some such, which isn’t good, obviously.” Aziraphale let out a thin laugh. 

“That’s the most succinct and inaccurate description of _Labyrinth_ I’ve ever heard. And that thin man is David Bowie. You do remember him, don’t you?”

“Oh, David. Yes, of course. Lovely chap.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You have no idea who I’m talking about. What’s got your knickers in a twist, then? Was the curry bad? You’ve been moody all evening.” 

“I have not.” 

“Now you’re pouting.” 

“I am not.” 

Aziraphale realised he was, in fact, pouting, so he pulled in his lower lip, plastered a wan smile on his face, and hoped for the best. 

“Come on now, out with it.” Crowley paused the film and sat up, withdrawing his feet. He focused that piercing gaze on Aziraphale. Aziraphale crossed his legs. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Oh please. Are you a six-thousand year old celestial being or a thirteen-year-old boy?”

Aziraphale didn’t want to admit how near the mark Crowley actually was. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself today. Let’s watch the rest of the film, shall we? I’m most interested in seeing what happens to David the . . . er . . . demon?” 

“Goblin king.” 

“Exactly what I meant.” 

Crowley seemed to relent; they put the film back on, and when it was over and Crowley had shut the front door, Aziraphale wondered what would’ve happened if he’d told the truth.

***

The day of the not-anniversarry arrived. For the first service, Aziraphale chose beef madrilene with gold leaf spangles (specially ordered), lobster aspic, and pumpkin soup. For the second, scallops with oyster liquor, wild salmon au sel, and morel souffle, a favorite of Crowley’s, demons having a special affinity for mushrooms. Dessert would be a simple platter of fruit (no apples) and a port Aziraphale had been aging for the last eighty years.

It was altogether a rather larger undertaking than Aziraphale had anticipated in spite of the reduced menu, and it taxed his culinary capabilities considerably. Not once, but twice, he burnt the souffle and had to start from scratch. The aspic did not set properly, and the beef was overdone. In the end, if he cheated slightly, he figured Crowley would never know the difference. 

“What’s all this, then?” Crowley asked as he settled into his seat across the table that evening. Aziraphale smoothed his napkin on his lap and picked up one of the dishes, spooning some food onto his plate. Everything smelled divine, if he did say so himself. 

“Oh, just a little something I cooked up.” 

“Hmm. Special occasion?” 

“You could say.” 

“And are you going to tell me what it is?” 

Aziraphale paused mid-service with a ladle of steaming soup. “You really don’t know?” 

Crowley’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips curving up into a smile. “Of course I do, angel. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re being so mysterious about it all.” 

“I’m not being mysterious.”

“It’s just a day like any other, you know. There’s no guarantee it won’t happen again.” Crowley’s voice was softer than usual. “We can’t get complacent.” 

“As we’ve discussed. But for now, here we are.” 

Crowley raised his glass. “Indeed.” 

The dinner continued. Crowley had two servings of souffle, which Aziraphale counted a rousing success. One bottle of wine turned into two, then three. After they’d cleared the plates and sat sipping their port on the sofa, Aziraphale wondered dizzily if he should consider sobering himself but decided against it. Everything was so warm and comfortable, and Crowley’s thigh was pressed against his as they discussed the events of the previous year. 

“I was wrong before, you know,” Crowley said, swirling his second full glass of port. 

“Hmm?” It was enough to break Aziraphale out of his reverie. He turned his head to regard Crowley’s profile, noticing his mouth in the way he had been noticing it lately. 

“It’s not just another day.”

“Oh.” 

Crowley turned to face him, his expression fond. Aziraphale’s heart thumped in his chest so loudly he was sure it was audible to Crowley’s keen ears. He wondered what his own face looked like; horribly, openly besotted he was sure. Well, there was nothing to be done for it now. He licked his lips. 

“Happy anniversary, angel,” Crowley said, and kissed him. 

It wasn’t like anything Aziraphale had imagined: it was so much more. He had never felt like such an inhabitant of his body, which turned and opened to Crowley as though he was the sun. It went on, deepening, so sweet and right Aziraphale couldn’t believe he had ever worried. It was the most natural thing in the world, the two of them together. 

They broke apart, both breathless. “You too?” Aziraphale said. He couldn’t help noticing Crowley was in the same state as he, male desire being rather obvious. 

“I was wondering when you were going to admit it.” 

“You know I’ve always loved you, you fool.” 

“Not like this.”

Aziraphale leaned in again. “Not like this.” 

The second kiss was stronger, more insistent. Aziraphale ached and ached, and then Crowley was touching him, his nimble hands freeing him from the confines of his trousers. He panted against Crowley’s mouth, clinging as he shuddered and cried out, wings unfurling in a wild burst. It had only been mere seconds, but he couldn’t help himself. It had been a thousand lifetimes. 

Crowley groaned, his free arm wrapping tightly around Aziraphale as his climax went on and then began to ebb. Crowley was whispering calming things into his ear, and as Aziraphale returned to himself, he realised he’d been crying. And perhaps he’d been babbling nonsense, too, because Crowley looked concerned. His wings had sprouted too, and covered them both in a protective embrace. 

“You’re utterly daft, angel, if you think I don’t love you. Haven’t I told you a million times? I asked you to run away with me, if you don’t recall.” Crowley frowned. 

“Yes, but that would have been a very stupid thing to do.” 

“Exactly, which is why I need you around. To stop me doing stupid things.” 

“Well, I’m afraid you’re quite stuck with me.” 

Crowley’s wings brushed against his own in silent answer, an even more thrilling touch than his hand had been. 

Aziraphale shivered, but when he looked down, he noticed Crowley’s arousal had abated. Confused, he was about to reach out, but Crowley gave him a sheepish, sated grin. 

“What can I say? You look nice with your wings out.” 

Aziraphale preened, and his wings fluttered. He supposed, if these human appetites were here to stay, he might as well enjoy himself, and enjoy Crowley. After all, they’d had quite a hard go of it. And indeed, who knew when the next not-end-of-the-world might happen? 

“Hopefully not for another six thousand years,” said Crowley, and kissed him once more.


End file.
